


let me let you go (we've both said our goodbyes)

by asahijpeg



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gen, Late Night Conversations, Mentioned Marco Bott, Multi, Slow Dancing, Soft goodness, bc it's snk you've done bad shit, but it's me so what did you expect, dealing with all the bad things you've done, wasn't meant to be sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asahijpeg/pseuds/asahijpeg
Summary: "you know you can talk to me about anything, right? that's what i'm here for."in which jean gives you some sage advice about dealing with being a shitty person.
Relationships: Jean Kirstein/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	let me let you go (we've both said our goodbyes)

watching the sun burn out and die beneath the horizon, letting silver tones wash over the world in its wake, has always been one of your favorite hobbies, a way to relax and unwind from the stress of your life as you revel in the soft twinkling of the stars as they appear in the sky, blinking silently into view. it’s when the atmosphere falls completely quiet, with the exception of gentle crickets, and near blackout dark, with only the moon to aid your vision, that you feel entirely at peace with everything, an untouchable connection with the things around you that instill a certain kind of softness within you.

it’s one of these particular nights, one after a long day of cleaning and training, that you’ve chosen to find yourself just outside survey corps headquarters, basking in the chill of the air and the comforting sound of croaking frogs and the coldness of the sky above you. as you make your way across the grass, every little blade of green cloaked in pitch, you savor the nipping cold that seeps easily past your thick scouts-issued jacket and cape, a welcome juxtaposition to the smothering heat of the mess hall. 

with light footsteps, you take your normal seat by the stream that’s not far off from your place of residence and work, your own little refuge when you need to break away from everything. the brook bubbles quietly, comfortingly, clean water spraying against the rocks and collecting on the toes of your boots. you lean back against your palms, elbows locked so your arms can hold your weight. your lungs fill with refreshing cool air as you breathe deeply, letting your eyes fall shut and your face tip up towards the night sky.

you sit in pure silence for long, undisturbed minutes, locked away in your own little bubble where you can reflect on things and not deal with anything else. these days, your mind has been preoccupied with the path you’ve taken so far, where it’s gotten you, where it’s going to take you. the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve  _ done _ weigh heavily on you and you’ve found yourself unable to shake that weight from your shoulders, unable to even put up a  _ facade _ the way connie and sasha do; why do you even deserve to  _ feign  _ being happy, mentally sound when you’ve done so many atrocious things to other people? “all in the name of victory against the titans” has been getting less and less viable as an excuse. 

and in the split of a second, you find yourself crying. you aren’t even sobbing, no full body wracking that sends your shoulders trembling and your throat choking you on your air; no, it’s the simple, soft summoning of silent tears that well in your eyes so quickly that they spill over your waterline in record time. your vision blurs with the effort of it all, drawing the stars into glittering conglomerates of silver supernovas, and you welcome it all with open arms, thankful that your emotions finally decided to spill over like a geyser.

left to your own devices, too focused on the relief that washes over you the way the water of the rivulet washes up the shore of the stream so easily, you don’t pick up on the footsteps behind you, cracking twigs and crunching leaves as they approach softly. you don’t even know someone is standing behind you until your name falls quietly from your new company’s lips.

“we were all wondering where you went,” jean says, his voice gentle and warm, maybe your favorite sound in the whole world. he starts to add onto his previous statement, but when you turn around to face him, his words die in his throat with a stutter. “wait, are you okay? why are you crying?”

you flash him the brightest smile you can and nod in confirmation. “i’m fine. this has been coming for a while. it’s okay.”

one of jean’s eyebrows quirk up in apprehension, an expression of confusion dancing across his olive undertoned features. he looks at a loss for words, dealing with emotions never having been one of his strong suits, even in the years that you’ve known him, but you can tell his mind is turning over ideas in his head on how to help you;  _ he’s always been good at thinking on his feet,  _ you remind yourself,  _ just like a real leader, just like marco said. _

your fingers drum droning patterns into the shins of your boots and you’re about to turn your gaze back to the sky and stream when jean extends one of his hands towards you, calloused fingertips looking soft in the moonlight. you look up at him, eyes reading confusion but smile reading gratefulness as you grab his hand, letting him trap your palm against his own and lift you to your feet, turning you to face him entirely.

his eyes, usually so vicious and so full of hatred, are soft, the browns of his irises sparkling brightly in the starshine. for a man who is typically so high strung and brash, he looks uncharacteristically comforting in this moment, almost too gentle and too kind, but you welcome it openly all the same. despite living in a world that has conditioned him to be brutal and ruthless, he’s always been so good to you, the one by your side when comrades died, the one sitting at your bedside when you were bound to the mattress after injuries gained during expeditions; despite all the callousness that’s been written into his bones since day one, he’s always been the one to offer you quiet words of serenity, the person lulling you into security when you need it the most.

with this in mind, you tender no resistance when the man pulls you into him, your cheek pressed against his broad, sturdy chest as he surrounds you in his embrace. your free arm instinctively wraps itself around his back, hand resting in between his shoulder blades; your other hand, still caught in jean’s palm, presses his own against his collarbone. it’s a weird position, one you haven’t been held in before, but there’s something so calming about it as you take in the way you can feel his steady heartbeat underneath your cheek as he holds you so closely.

“what do you mean by ‘this has been coming for a while?’” he asks, turning his head and resting it against the top of your own, an oddly consoling pressure that only adds to the protective way he caresses you. “you know you can talk to me about anything, right? that’s what i’m here for.”

you shrug against him, letting your fingers curl into his shirt, fingernails bluntly scraping against the warm skin of his back. “i know. i guess i’ve just been spending a lot of time thinking about the things i’ve done, the things we’ve all done, you know? it’s just been weighing heavily on me recently.”

jean’s grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, the hand at the small of your back just barely pressing you ever closer to him as he draws in a sigh. “yeah… me too.”

there’s a gentle sway in his step as he holds you against his body, all warm skin and taut muscles from years of being a scout, and you realize that he’s got you slow dancing with him under the moonlight, even though your tears are still staining his thin shirt, and suddenly, your emotions are rearing up again, kicking up dust into your tear ducts just to make you cry even more.

“we’ve done so many bad things, jean,” you mutter against him, eyes burning into the treeline on the horizon. “what if we did all of those things for absolutely nothing? what if everything we did results in loss rather than victory? we can’t bring any of them back.”

the breath he takes is sharp, his chest jerking as his lungs accommodate for the air. clearly not expecting your words, he finds himself lost in thought as he contemplates your words. the next time he speaks, you can feel the effort of his vocal cords, torso rumbling under your touch.

“we find a way to deal with it, i guess,” he responds, his voice rough. “but we gotta believe that we’re doing the right thing. otherwise, what’s the point of any of this? we have to make all these deaths count for something.”

the man’s words cycle in your head for a few long moments of silence as you sway with him to the soft, rhythmic beat of the orchestra of frogs and crickets. you know way in the back of your mind that he’s right; if you didn’t make something out of the sacrifices your friends had made, then what was the point of any of this?

“yeah…” you concede, your fingers squeezing against his hand and your head turning to rest your forehead against his sternum. “yeah, you’re right. i think i’m just missing some of them a lot recently.”

and there it is, a feeling so fleeting that if you weren’t paying attention, you’d completely miss it: jean’s head moves from your own and for just a moment, you can feel a pinprick of pressure against your hairline, his exhales washing over the crown of your head and stirring your hair as he presses the softest of kisses to your forehead. it’s an action jean rarely takes with you, whether it be because he’s not used to affection or because he’s unsure of where you stand in your relationship yet you don’t know, but when he does partake in it, letting his plush lips linger against your skin wherever he feels is most comfortable at the moment, you revel in the warmth that overtakes you and spreads through your body, aided by your bloodstream.

when he pulls himself away and resumes his position, his cheek pressing into the top of your head, you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “we can miss them together then. just let me know when you’re feeling bad again. you don’t have to disappear like that, you know? makes me worry.”

a smile finds its way onto your face, too, joining the one you know he’s wearing. your tears, drying salty against your skin come to an end as you allow the sleepy comfort wash over you entirely, all warmth radiating from jean and his golden heart.

“sorry, jean.”

he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles in response. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this specifically because my friend said "slow dancing jean" and i said "BET" so um... lu, i'm expecting the fanart you promised me.
> 
> title from when the party's over by billie eilish


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